


Out of the fields of men, into the world of gods

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Series: Of men and gods [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Amish, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Disabled Character, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: Clark swallowed, heart catching in his throat as he reached him. Shoulders broad, his spirit quiet and humble, Bruce’s profile was truly Amish. He’d witnessed it before, this change, when he’d come to the house yesterday to try to persuade him to return to the English world, as Bruce called it. But now, Bruce’s face shadowed by his wide brimmed hat and the beard that still looked odd on a man he’d once called partner in the NYPD, he felt bereft. As if his coming had not mattered. As if his questioning had not made a difference. As if—he’d never been friends with this man in his former life.





	Out of the fields of men, into the world of gods

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is literally the first of its kind here on AO3. Go figure! So it’s no wonder I feel a little like I’m jumping off a cliff posting it. I have no idea how it will be received, but I’m hoping there are a few out there who will find it intriguing! I’ve made it the first in a series. There will definitely be a follow-up fic or two. ;) Hope you enjoy the read!

 

He found him where Bishop Lapp said he would be. On his morning walk, inspecting his fields after the hard rain. The sun had not fully risen, yet showered dancing rays of light on a flooded plain. It would be a beautiful sight, if it weren’t so tragic.

 

Clark rued wearing his dress shoes, which could not fend off the moisture seeping into them. By the time he reached the northeast corner of the field, his socks were wet, his feet cold, and his patience challenged.

 

There would be no stealth today. He sighed and forced his feet in and out of each muddy step to get to Bruce, the sludge sticking to the bottoms and sides of his shoes, literally squeaking up to the man whose head had lowered more as he assessed the storm damage.

 

Clark swallowed, heart catching in his throat as he reached him. Shoulders broad, his spirit quiet and humble, Bruce’s profile was truly Amish. He’d witnessed it before, this change, when he’d come to the house yesterday to try to persuade him to return to the English world, as Bruce called it. But now, Bruce’s face shadowed by his wide brimmed hat and the beard that still looked odd on a man he’d once called partner in the NYPD, he felt bereft. As if his coming had not mattered. As if his questioning had not made a difference. As if—he’d never been friends with this man in his former life.

 

Bruce had truly assimilated, in all ways, not just in appearance but in speech, heart, and mind. That much was all too clear. Even the boys—

 

Clark could not finish that thought and swallowed again, hard. Could they find common ground before he left? Or was this—leaving in the midst of this sadness—all there was left of a fractured friendship? Had Alfred been right that the Bruce they’d known had died, this one taking his place forever?

 

“Gute mariye,” he offered, the greeting spilling awkwardly from his tongue.

 

Bruce did not look up from his task, the scowl upon his face evoking the dread now stirring in the pit of Clark’s stomach even more than seeing rows upon rows of crops mutilated had.

 

Bruce had been branded with failure before in the Amish community, when he’d been unable to save his wife during childbirth. Clark can’t imagine what this—his livelihood destroyed by rain, strong winds, and hail—would do to the man.

 

When Bruce remained silent, Clark said gently, “I’m sorry.”

 

He wasn’t sure that Bruce had heard him, until he heard him whisper brokenly, “Denki.”

 

“What will you do?”

 

Bruce cocked his head, eyes tracing the horizon, where the corn had once stood tall and proud. “What I must.”

 

“I have money.”

 

The creases along Bruce’s brows formed instantly. “I do not need your money, Clark.”

 

Of course not. “I only meant—I want to help.”

 

Bruce glanced at him, eyes hard, his voice—silent. But Clark heard it, loud and clear.

 

_I do not want your help._

 

Bruce blinked and drew a long breath. “Timothy’s garden.”

 

“Oh no,” Clark breathed out, looking westward, although neither could see the small prized garden from where they stood. “I’d forgotten…”

 

“He saw before I did...” Bruce started, but his voice dwindled into nothing.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Bruce balled his hands into fists at his side. “The creek. I—I should go after him, but…”

 

Clark squared his jaw. “I can take more vacation days. Stay with you. Help you rebuild.”

 

Bruce snorted.

 

“I will,” Clark said, indignant. Surely Bruce hadn’t forgotten he’d grown up on a farm.

 

“And Lois?”

 

He hoped he did not imagine his strained voice. “We broke up.”

 

Bruce looked at him.

 

Clark held his gaze. “She said if I came here, to find you, it meant only one thing.”

 

Bruce swallowed, a blush staining his cheeks. “You are verrückt.”

 

 _Crazy_. Clark smiled. “Pot, kettle.”

 

Bruce’s lips twisted into a ghost of a smirk, but it fizzled out just as quickly, as did the surge of hope in Clark’s chest.

 

“I cannot leave this place,” Bruce whispered, removing his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. He looked at Clark, sunlight reflecting from the wetness of his eyes before he replaced his hat and hid the beauty of his face from him.

 

“Why?” he asked, still not understanding.

 

Bruce spread his hands, every line and space on his face pained. Vulnerable. _Haunting_. “This was for my sons.”

 

 

—***—

 

 

He had nothing left, and Clark seeking him out only magnified what he’d tried to forget.

 

_He’d lost nearly everything._

 

“Leave with me,” Clark said, and not for the first time. “This place—it’s draining the life out of you.”

 

“It’s a different way, but not the wrong way,” he reprimanded, denying that his heart felt as hollow as Clark suspected it would be.

 

Clark’s eyes filled with hurt. “You don’t think I know that? I’m only trying to help you look at the bigger picture.”

 

“I like my view,” he said softly.

 

Even though it had taken him years of sorrow to get here, he preferred this country over anywhere in the city. The solace the land gave him. The rigidity of the church that, although confining, kept them safe. The spirit of community that unified them for once purpose. The hard work that kept his mind strong. Everything that made him forget what he’d lost while living with the Englisch. Even the destruction under the soles of his boots.

 

When Clark sighed, opening his mouth to speak again, no doubt to point out the obvious, Bruce raised a hand.

 

Clark firmed his mouth, waiting.

 

He lowered his hand, but could not muster even an amiable look, not when his heart had shattered once more. “ _Dood is niet het grootste verlies in het leven. Het is wat sterft in ons terwijl we leven.”_

 

“I have no idea what you just said, but even if I did, I’m not sure we’d agree.”

 

He had to push Clark out the door before he tried to pick up the pieces of Bruce’s life. It was not Clark’s place to do so, or he’d be forever crippled in a figurative sense. He’d never be strong again.

 

“Richard is making breakfast,” he said quietly. “Stay for one more meal?”

 

He could tell Clark was confused—calling Dick _Richard_ still felt wrong to _him_ —but the other man nodded, acquiescing as easily as he’d hoped.

 

They trudged solemnly side-by-side to the farmhouse, removing their shoes and setting them at the bottom of the steps.

 

Richard ran a tight ship. Without the touch of a woman in their home, someone had to clean while Bruce and Timothy toiled in the fields and around the farm.

 

His brilliant, handsome blind son had volunteered.

 

He stopped at the front door, heart thundering in his chest. With a shaking hand, he touched the doorknob, murmuring without looking up, “As soon as I tell Richard, and we eat—”

 

“—Timothy,” Clark interjected softly.

 

He nodded, using the pause to enter and find the only other son who was still breathing and alive—all that mattered. And when he found him, even with his _galluses_ attached incorrectly to his trousers, all his fears about Clark finding him here washed away.

 

Bruce. Timothy. Richard. The three of them had made a life. A life unlike any they’d ever known, but it was quaint and safe—and theirs. They’d been through trials before. They would make it again, tougher. It was all that mattered. He was here for them, away from the violence he’d showered upon them.

 

It had been part of his vow when he’d joined. They were a peaceful people, and now he and his family lived among them. He’d become a man of peace. Even his way of speaking had changed. Its cadence. Its depth. Its tone.

 

Could Clark not see what had happened here? This place had tied itself to his very soul.

 

Dick was setting the table, but his hands stilled at the sound of their footsteps, and he gripped the plate until his knuckles whitened. “Daed.” His son paused and, while Clark walked forward, he smiled, eyes fixed on the darkness in front of him. “Clark, I thought you had left.”

 

“You know it takes more than most to get rid of me,” Clark said.

 

Dick’s eyes shifted absently Bruce’s way. “The farm?”

 

Bruce’s shoulders dropped before he said a word, and although Dick could not see the defeat burdening him, Dick’s face fell.

 

“All of it?” Dick whispered, voice cracking, fingers fumbling as he set the plate down on the table, using his other hand to guide it into place.

 

If anything could break him, it would be this. The guilt his son held so tightly to his chest. For if Bishop Ladd would ask him, again, for the answer as to why a well-to-do English man of the Wayne family would leave a job he loved, and a city that was more his than anyone else’s, he would have to speak the truth.

 

He was here—because of Richard’s blindness. Timothy’s muteness. Jason’s abandonment. And all three things linked to one single moment. When Richard had erred as a rookie. When a criminal had sought revenge on Bruce’s family. When they’d lost the son of Bruce’s blood. When Jason could no longer bear to watch another family of his torn apart while he was helpless to it. When Bruce could no longer function in a city which had taken from him again. And again. _And again._

 

“Yes.” He paused, sniffing the air. “The biscuits…”

 

_Are burning._

 

“Dunner uns Gewidder!” Dick muttered, spinning on his heel, using his cane to find his way to the oven.

 

Bruce started forward, but a hand on his shoulder held him back.

 

“I’ll help him,” Clark said sharply, fingers curling firmly around his muscles. “Sit.”

 

Blinking once, Bruce did as he was told.

 

And, as his limbs began to shake from the shock of the destruction outside, denied the relief he felt, deep into the marrow of his bones, watching Clark slip into his role and patiently help his eldest son.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed Part 1 of this new series. ❤️ 
> 
> Here are a few translations, but I must first note that I FOUND these words/phrases already translated on several official websites regarding the Amish: And if this offends you as a reader, take it up with them, please NOT me. This is a fic I wrote for free and, given the subject, hardly anyone will be reading it. Therefore, I am at this point NOT going to change any translations that were found for this part to the series or otherwise. For simplicity’s sake, it’s going to be left AS IS. Thank you for your understanding. It’s interesting to me that anyone who has complained, they have NOT provided me with alternative translations, which would actually make MORE sense to me than just merely complaining. And much easier for me, as an author, who, again, is writing this for free and as a stress reliever. I would like to add I grew up in Amish country, I LIVE in Amish country, and I have read countless of things on this subject. This fic does not actually reflect all my knowledge—it is FANFICTION. Not a NY bestseller. I really wish readers would take in account that real people write these fanfiction stories and the creative choices they implement COULD be personal and not meant to offend. Thank you. 
> 
> *Gute mariye: Good morning  
> *Denki: Thank you  
> *galluses: suspenders  
> *Amish saying: Death isn’t the greatest loss in life. It’s what dies in us while we live.  
> *Dunner uns Gewidder!: Confound it!


End file.
